"Brothers?"
"One brother."
"And a sister?"
"Yes."
"How old?"
"Eleven and thirteen."
"That is quite a gap between your ages then?"
She did not think it necessary to reply to this--there was the faintest
impatience in the way she moved the manuscript.
I was so afraid to annoy her further in case she should give me notice
to go, that I let her have her way, and returned to work.
But I was conscious of her presence--thrillingly conscious of her
presence all the morning. I never once was able to take the work
naturally, it was will alone which made me grind out the words.
There was no sign of nervousness in Miss Sharp's manner--I simply did
not exist for her--I was a bore, a selfish useless bore of an employer,
who was paying her twice as much as anyone else would, and she must in
return give the most perfect service. As a man I had no meaning. As a
wounded human being she had no pity for me--but I did not want her
pity--what did I want?--I cannot write it--I cannot face it--. Am I to
have a new torment in my life?--Desiring the unattainable?--Eating my
heart out; not that woman can never really love me again, but that, well
or ill, the consideration of _one_ woman is beyond my reach--.
Miss Sharp is not influenced because I am or am not a cripple--If I were
as I was when I first put on my grenadier's uniform, I should still not
exist for her probably--she can see the worthless creature that I
am--Need I always be so?--I wish to God I knew.
* * * * *
_Night._
She worked with her usual diligence the entire day almost, not taking
the least notice of me, until at five o'clock when my tea came I rang
for her--Perhaps it was the irritation reacting upon my sensitive
wrenched nerves, but I felt pretty rotten, my hands were damp--another
beastly unattractive thing, which as a rule does not happen to me--I
asked her to pour out the tea.
"If you will be so kind," I said--"I have let Burton go out"--Mercifully
this was true--she came in as a person would who knew you had a right to
command--you could not have said if she minded or no.
When she was near me I felt happier for some reason.
She asked me how I took my tea--and I told her--.
"Are you not going to have some with me?" I pleaded.
"Mine is already on my table in the next room--thank you"--and she rose.
In desperation I blurted out--.
"Please--do not go!--I don't know why, but I feel most awfully rotten
to-day."
She sat down again and poured out her cup.
"If you are suffering shall I read to you?" she said--"It might send you
to sleep--" and somehow I fancied that while her firm mouth never
softened, perhaps the eyes behind the horn spectacles might not be so
stony. And yet with it all something in me resented her pity, if she
felt any. Physical suffering produces some weaknesses which respond to
sympathy, and the spirit rages at the knowledge that one has given way.
I never felt so mad in all my year of hell that I cannot be a man and
fight--as I did at that moment.
A French friend of mine said--In English books people were always
having tea--handing cups of tea! Tea, tea--every chapter and every
scene--tea! There is a great deal of truth in it--tea seems to bring the
characters together--at tea time people talk, it is the excuse to call
at that hour of leisure. We are too active as a nation to meet at any
other time in the day, except for sport--So tea is our link and we shall
go down through the ages as tea fiends--because our novelists who
portray life accurately, chronicle that most of the thrilling scenes of
our lives pass among tea cups!--I ventured to say all this to Miss Sharp
by way of drawing her into conversation.
"What could one describe as the French doing most often?"--I asked
her--.
She thought a moment.
"They do not make excuses for anything they do, they have not to have a
pretext for action as we have--They are much less hypocritical and
self-conscious."